


From the Ashes

by bluegrassbaby



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boys In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegrassbaby/pseuds/bluegrassbaby
Summary: The progression of their relationship starting from the end of TFPThis is my second work. I'm still relatively new to this and open to constructive criticism :)





	1. Chapter 1

After they pulled John out of the well that night, Sherlock had quickly pulled him close and locked his arms around him. John was soaked in frigid water and shaking hard. Sherlock was gasping and beyond the capacity for words, but the relief on his face and the strength of his grip told John what he was unable to express. In his friend’s embrace, a warmth began in John's heart and spread. That evening, after things were relatively settled at Sherrinford, they reluctantly parted ways. Sherlock had many things to sort out and resolve with his family. John returned home, exhaustion saturating his very cells and aching to see his little girl. She was fast asleep in her crib when he arrived and after the sitter left, he spent an hour just gazing at her, touching her fine baby hair and drowning in gratitude that he and Sherlock had survived the day. He finally extracted himself from the soft rocking chair, showered and collapsed into his bed, hoping for some deep, dreamless sleep. His final thoughts before he succumbed to the tide of slumber were for Sherlock. He hoped that he and Mycroft were able to get some rest tonight.

The air had a dense, slow-motion quality. He watched in horror as Sherlock slowly placed the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin. “No!” John shouted in his dream, his stomach dropping and his breath halting. He couldn’t bear to watch him die again. His closest friend. In agony and disbelief, he watched Sherlock pull the trigger…

He gasped awake, drenched in sweat and adrenaline. His chest was heaving as his body was in a maximal panic state. “No,” he whispered roughly to himself, pressing his palms into his eyelids. “Not real, not real, not real.” Before his mind caught up with his body, his arm reached for his phone on the nightstand and he touched Sherlock’s name on the screen. He picked up on the first ring. 

“John, are you alright? John, answer me.” The detective’s voice was laced with concern. John continued to pant, barely able to hold the phone to his ear. The ring of the deep baritone washed relief through his body and ever so slowly the panic began to ebb. 

“You’re ok…right….ok… ok, thank god,” he was talking more to himself than Sherlock. 

“Yes, I’m ok, John, I’m right here,” his voice was now soft and a little broken. “Nightmare?” Despite his monumental efforts, the doctor was unable to alter the typical progression of his nightmare resolution. They always ended with tears. Always. He was powerless to prevent it. 

“How many times am I going to have to watch you die?” he gasped between the repressed sobs that ripped from his chest. 

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock’s voice was thick over the phone. Had John been able to focus, he would have suspected that his friend may be sharing his tears. “Take deep breaths, John. I’m right here. It’s ok,” he repeated. Slowly, John’s hiccupping tears subsided and his heart rate slowed. He was able to talk again. 

“I’m really sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to wake you. I called you…automatically, without thinking,” he admitted, his voice still fractured. “I don’t even know what time it is.” John swung his legs out of bed, carrying the phone to the kitchen to make some tea. “Oh, god, it’s almost 3:00.”

“No, I’m glad you called me. I wasn’t really sleeping. I was just laying here…thinking. Trying to sleep. You’d think I’d be tired.” 

“To say you have a lot to process would be an understatement.” Sherlock sighed in response while John set two mugs out on the counter. “Is Mycroft getting some rest?”

“I believe so. He retired to his room down the hall. We didn’t talk much tonight. It was all…too much to process. We left it for tomorrow. He just apologized repeatedly.” John hummed a neutral response. He was angrier at Mycroft than perhaps he had a right to be. Angry for what he did to Sherlock in his formative years, angry for being stupid enough to set up their psychopath sister with the most nefarious criminal on the planet, angry for the lives lost and nearly lost today…he wasn’t sure the list ended there. However, the Holmes family needed to work out their own conflicts without John adding his sometimes-pathological anger to the tangled family web. As he poured the steaming water over the tea bags, he suddenly gave a short laugh. 

“What?”

“I just made 2 cups of tea, Sherlock.”

“I wish I was there to drink it with you,” the detective said, with a note of regret—although John could feel his smile. “I should’ve stayed with you.” John’s breath caught in his chest like butterflies in a net. He wanted his friend here, too.

“I know you have a lot to sort out with your family. It’s alright, we’ll catch up in a few days--”

“Oh, not that long,” Sherlock interjected. John heard another bone-deep sigh, “I’ll talk to you or text you tomorrow.” It was more tentative than a statement, so John was quick to respond.

“Yeah, let me know how you’re doing tomorrow, how things are going. I want to know. And tell me if I can help with anything.” John’s heart ached for his friend. 

“I will, John. Now try to get some sleep.” His tone was rich and warm. John’s nightmare was now tucked away into the far reaches of his cortex, under the security blanket of Sherlock’s murmur. His hands were steady on his mug. 

“You too. Good night, Sherlock.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
They texted each other sporadically over the next few days, and occasionally spoke at night, usually late, after Rosie was asleep. Although Sherlock had always preferred to text, after the first night they spoke, he found there was something comforting about hearing John’s voice. The day of John’s confession at Baker Street, when Sherlock held him while he sobbed, they had broken through the ice they had been skating on for so long. They talked more, they were more open with each other. It was an unspoken commitment to repair and improve what they had. The phone lent anonymity—a layer of protection, that allowed them to discuss things that were too intense to talk about face to face. Sherlock and his family had spent quite a bit of time with Euros at Sherrinford. John knew it was draining his friend and he suspected he was going to need a break. On the fifth night, after not hearing from Sherlock all day and feeling a niggle of worry in his gut, he received a call from Mycroft. 

“What is it, Mycroft, is he ok?” John demanded, by way of greeting.  
  
“Good evening to you, too, Dr. Watson, “ Mycroft’s smarmy tone slid though the lines. “Sherlock is…well…”

“Mycroft,“ the doctor warned, his anxiety growing exponentially with each passing second. 

“He’s en route to you right now. He’s exhausted, John. He hasn’t slept at all since the incident and he won’t accept help.”

“By help, you mean….”John wondered suspiciously. He doubted that he and Mycroft Holmes had the same definition of help.

“I’d do anything to help my brother.” The words caught John by surprise. It was as if they had taken on a life of their own and broken through Mycroft’s prim composure in a rare moment of desperate, urgent honesty. “I offered him medications, medicated teas, I offered to make an appointment with a good therapist, a vacation, time away, I offered to let him stay here as long as he wants. He doesn’t want any of it. He’s restless and irritable and smoking incessantly and….well, you know him, John. You know exactly how he is.”

John let out short burst of air that could have been a laugh if this situation was at all humorous. “Yes, I know him Mycroft. I know him and I can take care of him.”

“You may be the only one who can, Dr. Watson. I have to go out of town on business this evening and I don’t want him to be alone. His risk for relapse is extremely high, John. He, himself, suggested that he stay with you.”

“Of course,” John said quickly “of course. Rosie and I are happy to have him. He’s always welcome here.” 

“Very well. Look after him, please.”

No sooner had he pressed ‘end’, than there was a knock at his door. John found his friend leaning in his doorway, looking like a ghost. His coat hung limply on thin, hunched shoulders. His eyes were shadowed and listless, marred by dark smudges beneath. Although he had been expecting it, John was still taken aback by the battered appearance of the detective. He pulled Sherlock into his home by a shoulder, locking the door behind him.

“I didn’t bother to text since I knew brother dearest would be calling you.” He muttered as he slipped off his coat and collapsed, boneless, onto John’s couch with another deep sigh, head lolling back, eyelids dropping. John had not heard as many sighs from the man in the past 5 years as he had in the past 5 days. 

“Yeah, he said you can’t sleep and you won’t accept any help,” John said, busying himself in the kitchen with tea. 

“Nothing helps.” He said despondently. “I don’t want sedatives. I’m actually trying to stay sober, John. I don’t know what to do. I just need to shut down my hard drive.” 

“You mean you need sleep? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that, Sherlock,” the doctor smiled as he placed the tea cups on the table to cool and sank into the couch beside him.

“First for everything.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his head in his hands, rubbing aggressively at his temples and scalp. “I just don’t know how to do it.” His tone betrayed his mental agony.

“Do what?” John asked gently, leaning in.

“I don’t know how to incorporate this new knowledge, this whole experience, to catalogue everything and integrate it. I don’t know how to make this part of my history and part of me.” His voice shook, like his hands in his hair, interlaced behind his head which hung low. “Everything was a lie and everything I’ve become, everything I am is a fabrication, layers and layers of false defenses without substance, without a foundation. A shell. I don’t know who I am anymore, John.” His breath came in staccato bursts and his shoulders started to shake. John could no more resist the impulse to take him in his arms than he could stop his own heart from beating. 

“No, Sherlock,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around thin shoulders, pressing his own chest to his friend’s back. “No,” he slid his fingers into the unkempt curls, pressing his face into them. He inhaled the smoky essence and wished that his own love for Sherlock could seep out through his fingertips and assuage his pain. “You are not a fabrication. You are so much more than that. You were just a child. You believed what people told you because you trusted them and you did what you had to do to survive. You adapted, which proves that you are resilient. Look at me.” He tucked a leg under him, turning so that he could face the detective on the couch. Sherlock looked up at him with the vulnerable eyes of a traumatized five-year-old. “You are absolutely not a false shell. You are brilliant and strong. Every single day, you solve crimes and right wrongs in this world. You are mature enough to tolerate pain and loss and still have relationships. You accept people’s faults and transgressions, even when they’re egregious, and still find love in your heart for them. You go to great lengths take care of your friends. And you love Rosie and you love me.“ John paused there, a little surprised as he hadn’t planned on saying that. “No matter how often you tell me you’re a high functioning sociopath, it’s just not plausible. Too many people love you, Sherlock. You are not a shell of a person. You are whole, despite what happened to you at a young age and you’ve developed into this… beautiful, complex person, all on your own. You built this—all this, yourself. It’s…it’s astounding, actually. Amazing.” John’s eyes were shining with unshed tears of his own as they continued to stream down Sherlock’s face. The detective’s hands shook as he grasped his friend’s fingers. He closed his eyes, head bent forward against John’s shoulder. 

“John,” he rasped. He was unable to articulate anything beyond that. He was holding on to John as if he were a life raft. John’s hand crept up to the back of his friend’s neck. 

“I know, Sherlock. The Holmes have a lot of work left to do, but you’re going to get through this. We’ll do it together. Alright? I know I have been terrible to you lately, absolutely abominable, but that was so very wrong and I’m done with that. I can only try to make up for it. If you’ll allow it, any time and every time you need me, I’ll be right here. I assume that you have a lot of this left to do.” Sherlock nodded, pulling back, wiping his face on his sleeves. 

“You mean the crying?” he asked with an irritated tone. 

“Yes, the crying and the talking. It’s how people grieve, Sherlock.” He tenderly added, “It’s human. I’ve been learning it myself and if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past four months, it’s that doing it alone makes it so much worse.”

“Thank you,“ the detective whispered, gaze averted down at his hands. John reached over and took Sherlock’s restless hands into his own. His friend relaxed into his touch.  
“Want to see if take away and telly gets you sleepy? That’s worked in the past,” John gently suggested. Sherlock nodded. 

“I haven’t been very hungry,” he admitted. 

“I can see that. Let’s give it a shot,” his friend said, as he pushed himself off the couch to order. 

When an aromatic bag of food showed up at the front door, Sherlock actually perked up a bit and went to the kitchen to help John. They sat on the couch with full plates and John turned on the TV. Sherlock finished about a quarter of his plate—which was about what he ate on an average day—before stretching out on the couch, legs draped over John’s lap. John gave his feet a reassuring squeeze, rubbing soothing circles on his shins. 

“I’m glad you ate something. Now, close your eyes.” In a rare event, Sherlock did exactly as he asked. Beneath the doctor’s gentle touch, he let go. 

An hour later, the detective was snoring and John eased himself from under his legs. He cleaned up dinner and stood over his friend, loathe to wake him. 

“Sherlock, come on, come to bed,” he said gently, touching his arm. Sherlock moaned in reply. Gently, John pulled him up, supporting him around his waist and taking him to his bedroom.  
“No, I can sleep on the couch,” slurred the detective. 

“Nope, you’re too tall for it. You need real sleep in a real bed. This one is big enough for both of us.” He brought him to the edge of the bed, and instructed him to take off his trousers and shirt. Once again, he wordlessly complied, revealing how truly exhausted he must be. John slid in the other side of the bed and turned off the light. His friend was already snoring again. The relief that filled John allowed him to relax as he drifted off to the steady sounds of Sherlock’s breath.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John wasn’t certain what woke him in the pre-dawn hours. The bed felt empty and his hand met cold sheets where Sherlock had lain. A twinge of anxiety crept into his chest as he grabbed his robe and left the room. After quickly surveying the living room and then peeking out the front window to see if he had stepped out for a smoke, John’s fear was skyrocketing. Then, he remembered the final room he had yet to check. The door to Rosie’s room was ajar and Sherlock sat in the rocking chair next to her crib. He was gazing softly at John’s daughter, looking up slowly when John walked in. The expression in his friend’s eyes was unfathomable. 

“You alright?” John whispered. Sherlock nodded slowly. His brow was furrowed and he seemed to be formulating a thought. “How long have you been up?”

“Not very long. I must’ve woken you when I got out of bed, I’m sorry. John, I….” he couldn’t find the words to articulate his thoughts. “I…I want to be a part of her life, and yours. A permanent part. Always.” Sherlock looked apprehensively at the doctor. John was slightly taken aback by the anxiety he saw in his friend’s eyes, but given his own behavior lately, he understood Sherlock’s insecurity. 

“Yeah, of course, Sherlock. Always. You’re her Godfather, my closest friend. That’s what I want, too. Why are you thinking about this?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, sounding lost. “I need something real to hold onto. Something steadfast that I can count on. I feel untethered, even my memories are unreliable. My mind palace is susceptible to corruption, John. What isn’t? What in life…in my life, can’t be corrupted?”

“Us,” John answered with confidence. “I know we’ve been through a lot, Sherlock, and I know that I recently spent months pushing you away, but…we’re still here, standing next to each other. Look at everything we have come through. What we have is real and solid. You can rely on it.“ John moved closer to his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve also got Molly—you know you can count on Molly,” an anguished look crossed Sherlock’s features. “No, you just have to talk to her, Sherlock. She will forgive you. It may take time, but she’ll understand. This is Molly—look what she has already done for you. And you have Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. And as much is I hate to say it at the moment, you have Mycroft. He created this mess, but he did it with you in his heart, trying to protect you. As he has always done. He loves you.” Sherlock gazed at Rosie while he processed his friend’s words. “Come on, come back to bed and try to sleep some more.” Sherlock rose from the chair, gently touching Rosie’s back before silently following John from the room. They slipped back into bed and Sherlock crept closer to the doctor--close enough to feel his heat against his own chilled skin. 

“Always?” Sherlock whispered, nearly inaudible. 

“Yes,” John breathed, taking his hand. Sherlock sighed one last time, but this time a mixture of contentment and relief, and drifted to a dreamless place.

 

The sharp morning chill was defenseless against their combined heat beneath the duvet. John slowly filled his lungs with Sherlock scented air and felt moist breath against the back of his neck. He lay close, but not touching. Close enough to know he wasn’t alone, but not close enough to lead to a possibly premature discussion. John turned onto his back and tenderly observed the sleeping detective. Sherlock looked younger in the relaxed lull of sleep. The thought crossed his mind that he felt more comfortable waking next to his friend than he had his wife—but the thought was immediately washed away with a brief wave of guilt. Sherlock, perceptive even in his sleep, slowly opened his eyes to find John’s gaze on him. In a rare, unguarded moment, he smiled a slow, lazy, genuine smile at his doctor. It would have been impossible not to return it, though John didn’t even try to resist. Nor did he try to explain the rays of sunshine that seemed to come from his own chest, radiating heat to every extremity. 

“What’s on your agenda today?” he asked, to distract himself from his disconcerting physical response to Sherlock’s smile. To John’s dismay, he had broken their magic, his friend’s smile fading as he turned onto his back. 

“I’m going to talk with Molly,” he looked at John anxiously. “Any advice? I’m complete rubbish at these things, as you know. Talking about feelings. Do you think Greg has already told her what happened?”

“Probably, but we could text him to find out before you go. Just be honest with her, Sherlock. That’s all you have to do. Be honest about what was happening at the time and about how you feel.” The younger man nodded. 

“OK.” He took a fortifying breath. “After that, I’m going to Baker Street. Mycroft said it’ll be declared structurally sound so that we…I…can go through the rubble and see if anything can be salvaged.” 

“I’ll come, too,” said John, not missing the subtle invitation. “I’ll go through it with you. Some things might even be mine.” Sherlock glanced at him gratefully. “Let me know when you’re going over there. Is Mrs. Hudson back in yet? Did she have as much damage?” Sherlock shook his head, 

“She’s still with her sister until the renovations are complete. Mycroft said that would take about a week.”

“OK, I’ll call the sitter then,” John responded. This was the moment when they should get out of bed and start their days, but neither of them felt particularly inclined to leave their warm cove. Sherlock glanced over and caught his doctor’s eye. “Alright?” murmured John. 

“Alright,“ answered the detective, a soft look gracing his features.


	2. 2

It was as if he was cracking open. Over the course of the past week, Sherlock had been slowly revealing more and more of himself to his friend. John couldn’t tell if it was a deliberate effort to give up the façade of “I’m fine” and let him in, or if Sherlock was just unable to bear the pain alone any longer. Perhaps, a bit of both. They had completed what clean-up and salvage they could in the dying light of the day. Sherlock stood before a cracked and taped window glaring at the dim street. His expression was morose and he was preternaturally still. Silence blanketed the room and John paused his final survey of the rubble to observe his friend. He cautiously approached him, a hairs breadth away. 

“You ok?” he asked softly, not wishing to break his reverie, but concerned. 

“So much violence, John. I killed so many people while I was gone. Bombs and guns and knives and garrotes.” Remorse deadened his tone. 

“They were probably bad people, though, weren’t they?"

“Very bad,” his voice barely audible. 

“I’m sorry,” John said softly, for lack of anything better to say, wishing he could think of something that would take away two year’s worth of pain….for both of them. “I’m sorry wasn’t there with you.”

“I’m glad you weren’t,“ he said somewhat harshly, his sharp gaze grazing the shadowed planes of John’s face. “I was captured many times, tortured, beaten, left to die. I was so alone for so very long.” He trailed off, lost in a memory just over John’s left shoulder, the desolate look on his face gnawed at John’s gut. 

“Hey,” he said, touching Sherlock’s arm, grounding him in the present. Sherlock shook his head, clearing cobwebbed memories, finding John’s eyes again. He had never spoken to anyone of that time and he spoke now with an undercurrent of urgency,

“I would have been completely unable to tolerate it if I’d had to see you tortured. That’s why you couldn’t be there. I needed you alive and safe and…here. I never wanted to be away from you, John, but I needed you here, to come back to. The thought of returning to you was the only thing that kept me alive most times. I spent so much time with you in my mind palace….there were times I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t….if we had really talked or….” he trailed off again.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice heavy with some unnamed emotion. “I talked to you, too. All the time. I heard you, I even saw you in crowds, on the tube. I thought I might be going mental. Other people thought I might be going mental,” his eyes closed against unbidden and unwanted memories of pain that haunted him still. 

“I have to make a change, John. For a while, at least. Those 2 years were so traumatic, and then I returned to Magnussen and Mary and now Euros….my reserves are gone. I used to not recognize it when I was at this point. Or perhaps I did, but I would get high to deal with it. I can’t do that now, I have too much to lose, so I need to make a change instead. I need something different. I need to take a break.” John stiffened, 

“I understand, “ he backed slightly away from his friend, convulsively clearing his throat against the lump that had formed there and falling into a chasm that had opened up in his chest. It was completely understandable that Sherlock needed some time to himself—

“No, John, “ Sherlock spoke quickly, desperately, grabbing his friend’s hand, closing the distance John had begun to create. “Not from you, never from you, that’s not what I mean. I need a break from risk, from danger, from death, from lies and deception and fear and bone-deep, soul-shattering loneliness. I need respite from the constant feeling that I might just lose everything, everything, in an instant.” It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room and John was frozen, unable to breathe. He figured it out in this moment—the proverbial light bulb finally flickering and sputtering to life over his head. His heart was irrevocably interwoven with this man’s. It always had been, since the day they met, but he had been blind to it, completely ignorant of it, until this moment. It felt like he had been living life blind folded and suddenly the bright and brilliant world stood before him. A truth as bright as sunlight sparkling on snow. One thing was certain--whatever Sherlock asked of him, John would give him. 

“I don’t want you to feel that way ever again. Ever.” His voice was rough. “What do you need?” he asked, echoing Molly’s words from so long ago. Blinking, Sherlock was momentarily lost in a flashback to that time. How could he possibly deserve the friends he had? His gaze refocused to the present, onto John’s shattered and shocked expression. It was raw and in John’s eyes he could see revelation and love and it almost broke him. He could be nothing less than completely open. He had no energy left for masks and half-truths.

“You. I need you and Rosie,” he looked around the black ashes of his sitting room, but in his mind’s eye he saw a completely different scene, “I need quiet afternoons reading before the fire, studying ash and bees and decompostion, reading books and doing experiments—safe ones, no explosions,” he quickly amended, “Reading children’s books and drawing baths, playing lullabies on the violin, walking in the park, solving cold cases and nonviolent crimes, takeaway thai and mindless telly, naps with my feet in your lap, holidays with people we love and long, dreamless nights.” His eyes were wide when he finished, shocked at his own honesty and vulnerability. He was petrified that he had said too much—that his dreams were too much and John would pull away, excuse himself from this emotional catastrophe formerly known as Sherlock Holmes. He only had to wait a fraction of a heartbeat before understanding that he could not have been more wrong. John pulled him in to his arms and hoarsely whispered, 

“Oh, God, yes.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, weak with relief and leaning into John, wrapping around him, wrapping himself in him, allowing him to fill in all the fault lines. “I thought maybe it was too--“   
“I know what you thought,“ John interrupted, murmuring against his chest. “You were wrong.” John took a deep breath in Sherlock’s arms, filling formerly dark spaces with light and air. After minutes that felt simultaneously eternal and not remotely long enough, John pulled away and awkwardly wiped his face on his sleeve, sniffing. He glanced at his watch.  
“I have to pick up Rosie. You’re coming back with us tonight, right?” His expression was hopeful. Sherlock smiled, 

“Obviously.” John grinned. 

 

Hours later, they created a surprisingly domestic tableau in John’s house. They sat at the dinner table, laughing as they tried to get Rosie to ingest more pasta than she projected. Dinner had been relaxed, as they talked about how Sherlock’s conversation went with Molly. As John had predicted, though she had been very hurt, Molly was forgiving. It would take time for things to get back to normal between them, but they had started down the road to recovery. Sherlock was immensely relieved and grateful. He valued their friendship more than he could express to her. He and John were finishing a bottle of wine as John took Rosie to the bath. When he passed through living room again, Sherlock was intently texting with a frown. 

“Everything alright?” Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in response. John continued with the bedtime routine. He was rocking Rosie in her chair when his phone rang. Sherlock heard him talking with a colleague from the surgery and stepped into Rosie’s room to relieve John. He took mini-Watson from his friend, as John stepped out to talk about exchanging surgery shifts. Rosie was calm as the tide of sleep tugged on her eyelids. Sherlock found himself soothed by the rocking rhythm and soft warmth in his arms. If someone had told him a year ago that he would be holding a tiny person and gazing at her lovingly, he’d have scoffed at the absurdity and insulted them. Yet, here he was. John stepped in, smiling as he watched his two most favorite people in the world. 

“You can lay her down if she’s asleep,” he murmured. Sherlock hummed and placed her gently on her back in her crib. He followed John back to the couch, where John had poured the last drops of the wine into their glasses and placed them on the coffee table in front of them. The doctor looked at his friend from the side, and somewhat hesitantly asked, 

“Are things OK? Were you texting Mycroft?” Sherlock smiled at him, 

“Your deduction skills are improving,” he teased, “Yes, it was The Queen, himself. He was giving me a progress report on the flat. They’ll be cleaning all day tomorrow and it will be livable starting tomorrow night.” The fleeting disappointment was barely discernable on Sherlock’s face, before he quickly wiped it clean with the standard mask of indifference. John had been mid-sip of wine and gulped audibly. 

“Oh, OK. Right, yeah, that’s good. You can go back home to Baker Street. I’m sure you’ll be happy to sleep in your own bed again,” his tone sounded unconvincing, even to himself. The strength of his disappointment kicked him in the chest, catching him completely off guard. He had been enjoying their intimate evenings and nights here so much, that he hadn’t given much consideration to the fact that they would end. But of course they would. Sherlock would return to his home and leave John and Rosie alone. His chest was tight. He studied his wine for a few moments and cleared his throat awkwardly before hazarding a glance at his friend. Sherlock caught his eyes with an intense, but unreadable look, before again uttering a noncommittal, “Hmm.” John sighed, and turned to the television for distraction. 

“Do you care what we watch?” he asked. Sherlock stretched out on the couch, legs once again over John’s lap, and steepled his hands under his chin. John smiled at his friend, settling his arms over Sherlock’s legs and affectionately squeezed his shins. “I’ll take that as a no.” Despite finding a rerun of a Bond film, the wine was heavy in his head and before long, he nodded back onto the couch and his mouth dropped open with a snore. Sherlock opened his eyes and took the opportunity to blatantly observe his best friend. The depth of his affection took him by force. He lifted his hand to touch John’s face…. I’m so glad I didn’t lose you, I’m so glad you let me in again, you’re my anchor, please come home, never leave, you’re my family, I lo—the words clawed their way out of his heart, climbed into the back of his throat, and pressed against his sealed lips. He closed his eyes, locking the words in, and fisted his hand before touching John. He didn’t want to push this…whatever this was that they were rebuilding. Friendship? He didn’t know many friends who regularly shared a bed. Even without (or especially without?) physical intimacy, he knew this was an unusual arrangement. He pulled John up from the couch, 

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go to bed.” 

 

The next morning, John had a shift at the surgery, so they were all up early. John left before Sherlock did, Rosie packed up and on his hip. 

“Just lock up on your way out. Text me later,” John said as he passed by Sherlock sipping coffee at the kitchen table. A hand dropped briefly, casually, onto his friend’s shoulder before walking to the front door and John had an absurd thought about how completely normal it would feel to instead drop a kiss onto his friend’s curls as he left. He pushed the thought from his mind and pulled the door shut behind him. 

Sherlock sat thoughtfully as he finished the toast that John forced him to eat. He should be looking forward to returning to Baker Street, but he felt glued to his chair here, in John’s home. He felt like he was part of something when he was here—a part of system, a family, a functioning unit of people who work, eat, sleep and drink tea together. People who touch to say hello and goodbye and I’m here. A quiet, empty, especially clean Baker Street was not going to feel like a home. Yet. He shook off the thoughts with a sigh, impatient with himself for the cumbersome emotions and attachments. He had to move on with his life and start working on something again. He placed his dishes in the sink and left for Baker St. 

 

The week trudged on, filled with surgery shifts for John and settling back in for Sherlock. John stopped by Baker Street a couple of times to check on the progress. It somehow looked remarkably the same—Sherlock (often after soliciting John’s opinion) had chosen much the same furniture and décor. Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had also added a new feature to the upstairs bedroom--in addition to the bed that would be John’s (should he choose to stay over now and then), he had placed a crib. With Anthea’s help, he had also bought a box of diapers, a diaper pail and wipes. He was barely able to wrap his head around the notion that he had purchased baby items for Baker Street, but he was eager to make staying at Baker Street easy for John and Rosie. He wanted them to feel at home. John had vaulted up the stairs to see his room before Sherlock had a chance to mention any of this to him. Sherlock’s stomach clenched—what if it had been too presumptuous? But when John returned, the broad smile on his face was all the evidence Sherlock needed to know that the effort had been appreciated and well worth it. When John finished making tea, he handed the cup to Sherlock, their fingers momentarily overlapping, leaving Sherlock’s tingling.

“Thank you, “ John said quietly. Sherlock’s smile was warm and impulsive, belying his happiness in an unguarded manner. “Did you really—“

“Anthea,” answered Sherlock, “I texted her pictures of Rosie’s things from your flat.” A warmth filled John, pushing his lips into a smile and his eyes into depths that swallowed Sherlock. Sherlock blinked rapidly and quickly filled his lungs, feeling as if he might drown.

“We should have a housewarming party,” John suggested. Sherlock was thankful for the change of topic. He cleared his throat.

“Hm. Maybe in another week or two.” He deflected. He wouldn’t mind having a few of their friends over, but he wanted to get back into a routine himself and see how often he could get John and Rosie to stay with him. 

“Well, then, Rosie and I will be over this weekend, if you don’t have any plans.” Sherlock wondered why his friend sounded tentative. 

“You have a key, John. Baker Street is as much your home as it is mine. You’re welcome here whether I have plans or not.” John sipped his tea, giving Sherlock a small smile in response. “I’m going to see Euros Saturday, late morning. I should be back by dinner…if you want to get takeout or something.” 

“Good.” John murmured into his tea.


	3. Chapter 3

Friday afternoons at the surgery always felt interminable. Everyone was desperate to see a doctor at the last moment before the weekend. After his last patient at 5:30, John wanted nothing more than to collapse on the couch and have takeaway with Sherlock. His empty flat held no comfort and no appeal. The evening was gray and chilly, a nippy wind propelling newspapers and leaves down the street as he picked up Rosie and caught a cab to Baker St. He bustled his way into the hall and Mrs. Hudson rushed out of her flat, gushing over Rosie. 

“Oooh, hello, sweetheart! John, why don’t you go up to see Sherlock and let me keep her for awhile?” 

“Well,” the notion of relaxing with some tea for minutes held sway. “Alright, but it’s dinner time—“

“Oh, John, Sherlock has stocked my cabinets with baby food, I’ll be happy to feed her.” John stood stock still for a moment, cocking his head in an excellent impersonation of a curious retriever. 

“He did? Sherlock did that?” Mrs. Hudson took Rosie from his arms. 

“But of course!” She cooed at Rosie and shut the door to her flat. John stared blankly at the closed door for a moment. He was floored by all the effort Sherlock had put into making John and Rosie feel at home here. A smile crept over his features and he climbed the seventeen steps. 

Sherlock looked up from the microscope briefly before returning his gaze to his specimen, “You had a long day at the surgery and preferred to retire here.”

“Yes,” John said simply. As he walked into the kitchen to start the tea, he saw the corners of his friend’s mouth twitch upward. He stood in the kitchen while waiting for the water to boil, stretching and rolling his shoulders with a yawn. 

“Fridays are always your most exhausting days,” Sherlock murmured into the table. 

“Observant as always,” John quipped, pouring tea for both of them. He sat across from the detective, placing his mug within reach. He sighed. “My place is quiet and empty. It’s not relaxing after a long week. It’s lonely.” It doesn’t feel like home. He’s not sure it ever really did. It’s something he chose with Mary and without her, it feels like a shoe that doesn’t fit. 

“There’s no need for you to be lonely. Stay.” Sherlock looked up at him from beneath his lashes, without lifting his head. The look bordered dangerously on flirtatious, though John was certain Sherlock had not intended it to be so. Regardless, the man was bloody beautiful and the intensity in those verdigris pools framed by dark lashes unsettled John. He quickly lifted his mug to his lips, feeling a tingling in his fingertips and pleading with his circulation not to rush to his cheeks. He took an unnecessarily long sip of tea. Sherlock looked up fully this time, narrowing his eyes, looking curious. John cleared his throat.

“Yes, I was thinking we would stay tonight.” John knew that wasn’t what exactly what Sherlock had been suggesting, but he was so thrown off by his physiological response (because that’s all it was, right?) to Sherlock that he went for the easier answer. “Thai?”

“I already called it in while you were talking with Mrs. Hudson.” John smiled. 

“What if I didn’t want Thai tonight?” He teased. 

“The probability of that was negligible. The probability of you becoming irritable due to hunger, on the other hand, was much higher. Statistically speaking, our evening was more likely to have a positive outcome based on the earlier arrival of food that you would most likely eat.” 

“You sure know how to sweet talk a bloke,” John said, laughing. 

“What?”

“I mean, that is exactly why I wanted to come over here, Sherlock.” Sherlock still appeared puzzled. 

“OK, good,” he responded somewhat tentatively, unsure of what was transpiring in this conversation. 

After dinner, and bedtime for Rosie in her new crib upstairs, John and Sherlock sat in their chairs, sated, warm and content. John had poured them each a finger of whiskey that they were nursing.  
“You can’t even tell this place was blown up a few weeks ago,” John said, inspecting the room from his seat. “You did a good job getting everything back in place.” 

“As much as I hate to admit it, Mycroft was most helpful. And I’ve spent the past week attending to the details.” The doctor nodded appreciatively. 

“How are you guys doing? You and Mycroft, I mean.” Sherlock stared into his glass pensively, clinking his ice with gentle turns. 

“Somehow, this event has brought us closer. All of us, as a family, but especially the two of us. I was angry with him at first. I’m still somewhat angry, but I understand why he did it—why he lied about her, lied to me about Trevor, locked her away. He bore a huge burden for the entire family, all on his own. I know well how lonely that experience can be. I wish he hadn’t had to go through it—I wish a lot of things had happened differently, but we can’t change the past. I was too young when it all happened—I was unusually intelligent, but I didn’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the thing that is my sister and her cruelty. Mycroft was trying to protect me. Like he always has. I choose to stand by him now.” John listened with wide eyes. He wasn’t used to such emotional insights coming from Sherlock, nor such lengthy commentary on his family. He was once again impressed by his friend’s capacity for forgiveness and understanding. He shook his head and sighed. 

“You’re amazing, Sherlock.” His friend looked at him quizzically. “You hide so much empathy and kindness behind that haughty façade of arrogance. I feel incredibly lucky to be allowed to see this side of you. The real you.” Sherlock ducked his head in the face of John’s candor and again glanced up at him through his lashes. This time, John’s smile grew and he allowed himself to feel the tingling warmth spread from his fingertips up through his chest. That sensation was worth some private consideration. He rose from his chair and stepped to the window, viewing the shadows of the cool night that had settled over London. 

The detective surveyed his friend’s back at the window. That was the second time Sherlock had observed John blushing and he was utterly befuddled. Normally he would attribute it to embarrassment or excitement…but John was feeling neither, was he? 

“I think while you’re at Sherrinford tomorrow, I’ll bring over some clothes for Rosie and me to keep here. If you’re ok with that?” John asked without turning. 

“Of course. “

“And I’ll cook a proper dinner for us tomorrow. We can’t do takeaway every night.”

“We can’t?” Sherlock looked perplexed and John laughed. 

“No, we can’t.” He took his glass to the kitchen and returned, yawning. “Good night, Sherlock.” Sherlock smiled at him, silently nodding from his chair. He was so happy that John and Rosie were here so soon—sooner than anticipated and it required no coercion or convincing at all. It seemed John wanted to be here—and that thought warmed Sherlock more than liquor or a winter fire or an ugly jumper. He desperately hoped that they planned to move in permanently. John seemed to be considering the idea. Sherlock didn’t want to push him and unintentionally push him away. It needed to be John’s decision. 

The next evening, after fetching a suitcase of clothing for himself and Rosie, John was back at Baker Street, standing in the kitchen, stirring sizzling meat while Rosie played with plastic cups on the floor. 

“Blue. Can you say blue, Rosie? That’s a blue cup.“ She babbled and threw the cup with a tremendous amount of force at the legs of the kitchen table. “Alright, then,” John laughed, “maybe not your favorite color?” Rosie then squealed and pointed into the sitting room. “Hmmm? What is it, love?” John was distracted as he removed the meat from the burner and turned off the stove. He poked his head around the corner to find Sherlock standing very still in the sitting room, still holding his violin case, with an indescribable expression frozen on his features. John looked at him with concern, “You alright there, Sherlock?” He stepped closer and noted the weariness in his friend’s face. 

“It’s just….it’s so….it smells really good in here.” John suspected he had meant to say something else entirely, but he let it go. He took the violin from him, placing it in its designated corner. 

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready. Are you hungry?” Sherlock blinked a few times. “Never mind, I know you’re never hungry, but you’re going to eat anyway.” John finished with a smile, as he returned to the food in the kitchen. Sherlock sat at the table as the doctor placed some tea in front of him. He wrapped his long, pale fingers around the mug and seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped and his head dropped with a sigh. John observed without comment. Sherlock would talk when he felt ready. His visit to Sherrinford had obviously been draining. It was rare that his friend looked overwhelmed. John set the steaming plates on the table and buckled Rosie into her baby chair. He opened a jar of peas for her and began to spoon it into her mouth. “You can start, Sherlock, don’t wait for me.” The detective was not particularly hungry, but since John put effort into making a home cooked meal for them, he may as well give it a taste. John smiled at him as he picked up his fork and he had to push the reflexive, unbidden thought out of his brain-- that he would do whatever it took to keep John here and smiling at him. The first bite startled Sherlock with the intensity of the flavor and he suddenly found himself more amenable to taking some sustenance. John made small talk about his and Rosie’s day, Rosie babbled and spit applesauce and slowly, and everyone’s meals disappeared. Much to Sherlock’s surprise, he found that a some of his tension also disappeared. He had spent most of his day reflecting grimly on how disrupted his life had become as a result of his sister’s pathology and his brother’s choices. When he opened the door to his flat to such a normal, happy, domestic scene, the contrast took him aback, immobilizing him in his own sitting room. His thoughts had been so negative regarding his lonely station in life, but the incontrovertible counterargument stood before him in stark relief—he had a family to come home to. It filled a cavity deep inside, the hole disappearing like footprints in the sand at the beach. A place that had started to fill in before his “death”, but had felt cavernous again since John’s wedding. This was something that he simultaneously needed and was desperately afraid to need. He had no idea how he would cope if this space ended up empty again in the future. 

“I’m going to give her a bath and put her in bed, “John said, as he tugged Rosie’s bib from her neck and picked her up, carefully avoiding applesauce bombs. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said suddenly, stopping his friend in his tracks. “For dinner. “ 

“Oh, you’re welcome,” John smiled and glanced at him from the corner of his eye as he took Rosie into the bathroom. Sherlock couldn’t account for the butterflies tickling the inside of his ribs at his friend’s glance. He followed them into the bathroom as if drawn by a magnet. The detective leaned in the doorway, relaxed, a soft curve to his lips, watching as John gently bathed his daughter, talked to his daughter, played with her. Rosie caught Sherlock’s eye and he made a face at her that precipitated a round of squeals and splashing that soaked John. John’s laughter was contagious as he protested and pulled his dripping wet girl out of the tub and placed her in the towel Sherlock had spread on his own arms, ready to receive. Bundled and sweet smelling, they both took her upstairs for bed. Sherlock sat on John’s bed, back against the headboard, while John read Rosie a bedtime story and he continued to lie patiently while John gave her a bottle and rocked her to sleep. John shot his friend a curious look—it was atypical for him to linger for so much of the bedtime routine. John would never use the word ‘clingy’ to describe Sherlock, but this would be Sherlock’s version of it. As John lay Rosie into the crib, Sherlock snuck out of the room and down the stairs. He picked up his instrument and proceeded to play a soft piece while John listened peacefully from his armchair, absorbed in the melody. When he finished, John gazed at him speculatively. Something was on his friend’s mind—and heart.

“What happened today?” The detective sighed, his dark curls dropping low on his forehead. Filtered light from the street lit half his face, the other half in shadow. 

“Nothing in particular,” he answered vaguely. 

“You seem sad.” Sherlock shot him a quick glance before turning to the view of the buzzing London street. 

“I’m not like her. Am I?” The doctor did not need to know who ‘her’ was. He looked up in consternation, his concern bringing him to stand behind his friend. 

“No, Sherlock,” he stated firmly. “You are not like her at all. You are not really a sociopath. You have empathy, friends, people who love you. Did she say that you are like her?” 

“No,” Sherlock murmured, not turning to meet John’s emphatic expression. “I just….don’t want be like her. Or become her.”

“Never,” John whispered, as he lifted a hand and rested it against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock now turned and met John’s worried expression with a wan curve of his lips.

“Thanks,“ he whispered back. After a sigh, “I think I’m going to bed early.” John stared at him. You could have etched the doctor’s worry lines on his forehead in stone. 

“OK,” he said slowly. “Alright, get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He ran his hand down Sherlock’s back before heading to his room. Sherlock’s weak smile failed as he watched his friend walk to the kitchen. 

The glowing red numbers assaulted John’s eyes, declaring that it was 2:16am when something had him clawing from the edges of consciousness. He opened his eyes and immediately checked the crib, but found Rosie sound asleep. He also found Sherlock’s bent form sitting at the edge of his bed. Slanted lines of street light slithering in between the blinds shingled his back. John cleared his throat before croaking, 

“Hey. What’s wrong?” His friend made a pained grunt and dug his hands into his own unruly curls, elbows pressing into his knees, head hanging low. John propped himself up on his elbow, sliding a hand down his face, concerned. “Can’t sleep?” Sherlock’s voice is gravelly and agonized when he quietly responds,

“It’s the craving. It seeps from my bones and crawls under my skin and I can’t be still, I can’t rest. It’s an itch that can only be scratched by one thing. It’s a leviathon rearing, pulsing, aching, pushing out of every pore, and I can’t tame it. I thought being here, being near you would help. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Sherlock, you can always wake me. I’m glad you came to me,” John said, as he ran a hand over the detective’s back, noting his freshly damp and clean smelling T-shirt. He must have taken a shower to try to temper the urges. When Sherlock finally looked up, his eyes were wet with unshed tears,

“I don’t know what to do with this, John. It’s telling me that I just need one hit. That’s it, I can stop after one. But I know I won’t. And I can’t, I can’t use, I can’t lose you and Rosie again.” 

“Come here, lay down,“ John pulled his friend into the bed, covering them both with the soft duvet. “Tell me something. A story, anything. Tell me about cases from before we met. Give me every detail, paint a picture of it. Tell me about the crime scenes and the criminals and how you were brilliant.” 

“Won’t we wake her?” Sherlock looked over at Rosie.

“No, you’ve heard the term ‘sleeps like a baby’?” John whispered with a smile. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. The air in the room stilled expectantly. 

“Alright…” he started slowly, rummaging through his mind palace for old cases. “There was this case about 11 years ago, I had just gotten out of rehab for the first time and…” and so it went for about an hour. His natural penchant for drama took over as he recounted his tales of murder and intrigue. John was the perfect audience and it was the perfect distraction. As he finished describing his final case with a flourish, he turned his head to the side, to meet his doctor’s sleepy gaze. 

“Thank you,“ he said, in relief. “It feels more manageable now.”

“Any time, Sherlock. Every time. Please come to me every time you have an urge to use. Promise me.” John’s gaze held a passionate insistence that was reinforced with his hand on Sherlock’s bicep. A warmth filled Sherlock, tingling in his stomach to his to his fingertips and he swallowed audibly. He didn’t know how much longer he could go without telling this man just how much he meant to him. He was certain that he was already telling him with his eyes—he could only hope that John was even less observant than usual at 3:30am. 

“I promise,” was all he could muster.

“Good.” John’s eyelids drifted shut while his hand remained affixed to Sherlock’s arm. The detective whispered, 

“I’m okay now, I can go back—“ but John chose that moment to tighten his grasp and move his thumb gently over his friend’s skin. 

“Stay,” he whispered. And who was Sherlock to argue? There was nowhere he felt safer than lying next to his doctor. He relaxed into the bed and listened to John’s steady breath against the soft background of the sounds of London in the wee hours of the morning. Overwhelmed by love and in a swell of courage, he took John’s hand from his arm and brought It to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles. Sherlock didn’t need light to know that John was smiling as he entwined their fingers and drifted to sleep. 

 

“Baaaabaaabaaabaa…” broke through the thick blanket of slumber. Sherlock smiled before opening his eyes. Rosie was clearly learning to articulate the sounds of language and though he never thought he’d say such a thing, it was precious. He slitted his eyes against the intrusive light to find John already awake and gazing at him. 

“Someone’s awake,” John said, lips curving at the corners in a smile that was fuzzy at the edges. Sherlock didn’t know if John was referring to Rosie or him. His breath caught at the warm affection in John’s eyes and he wondered briefly if his heart had forgotten how to beat. 

“I’ll get her,“ Sherlock rose quickly from the bed, attempting to dispel his discombobulation. He leaned over the crib and gently lifted her. He kissed her cheek as he laid her on the changing pad. John observed him with something akin to shock as he proceeded to quickly and efficiently change her nappy. 

“I didn’t even know you knew how to do that,” he said in surprise. Sherlock gave him a signature incredulous scowl, 

“I doesn’t take a genius to change a nappy, John.” The doctor laughed, 

“No, but I’ve never seen this genius do it before.” Sherlock picked Rosie back up and headed toward the door, 

“Get up or you’re going to miss breakfast,” he called as he headed down the stairs. John laid back in bed for another moment, marveling at his life. He never thought he’d feel this happy to wake with his daughter and his best friend. 

 

At breakfast, Sherlock tipped a spoon of peaches into Rosie’s mouth with one hand while he perused the paper with the other. John went about making toast and coffee. 

“John, look at this,” the detective said with an undertone of excitement, “This man is completely innocent! It’s obvious! But they’ve arrested him as the prime suspect. I must call Lestrade today. Maybe I’ll go to the Yard.” John walked over to read the article in front of his friend, leaning a hand on his shoulder to see the details. His chest was nearly against Sherlock’s back—he could have tucked his head against his shoulder. He felt Sherlock take a deep breath and felt he may need to do the same to clear his suddenly hazy head. 

“I have no idea how you know that,“ he murmured, returning to pouring the coffee. He set a mug in front of Sherlock and sat across from him. “Sherlock—“ he started, sounding hesitant. His friend’s eyes flicked up nervously from the paper, painfully aware of the sudden change in John’s tone. Perhaps he regretted letting Sherlock stay in his room last night. Perhaps he was going to tell him that this really wasn’t going to work out, spending so much time at Baker Street. 

“Do you think….I mean, would it help if….what if Rosie and I just stay. Here. With you. All of us, together, I mean.” John winced at his own stuttering statements. He had meant to propose it much more coherently. What was wrong with him, anyway? “What I mean to say,” he swallowed and started again, slowly, “is can Rosie and I move in?” Sherlock was frozen, coffee cup halfway to his lips, similar to the way he had stood in the living room the night prior. Anxiety crashed over John and he rushed ahead, focusing on his toast. “If not, it’s OK, it’s all fine, our flat is fine, actually—“

“No! No, stay here. Move in. Please. Baker Street is as much your home as it is mine, John. It’s much too quiet and dull without you.” How did he do that, John wondered? How did he remain articulate in these situations? He heaved a sigh of relief as he finally looked up from studiously applying jam—directly into a blindingly happy smile on his friend’s face. 

“Perfect, then,” John said, placing a small square of soft toast on Rosie’s tray. “We’ll come home,” he finished softly. 

 

Slowly, over the course of the next a couple weeks, all of John and Rosie’s belongings migrated to Baker St. At Sherlock’s request, Mycroft supplied John with a realtor to help him sell his flat and in the following months, they fell into a new rhythm of working and cases and day care. Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic about the new arrangement, visiting often with sweets and offering to watch Rosie any time (any time at all, boys!). John was finding that having a second person to help with Rosie was an immense relief. He was able to relax more and sleep more. Since Sherlock rarely slept himself, he was often up to soothe Rosie back to sleep during the night. As a result, over the course of months, their sleeping arrangements became completely fluid and interchangeable. If Sherlock planned to be up all night anyway, he kept the baby monitor with him in the sitting room John took the opportunity to get a full night of sleep in Sherlock’s bed, and then Sherlock would end up with Rosie in John’s room. Sometimes John shuffled, bleary eyed into the sitting room to the heart-melting scene of his daughter sound asleep against his best friend’s chest as Sherlock texted, read or snored himself. And sometimes (just sometimes) John and Sherlock ended up in the same bed (somehow), whether it made sense or not, and no one complained about it. Shoes were removed and blankets thrown over each other, wherever they lay. And, sometimes, they woke up pressed against each other, an arm thrown over with the blanket—and no one complained. Sometimes, when the detective had been awake for 3 days on a case and was literally falling asleep standing up, John pulled him onto the couch, tucking him into his shoulder or laying him into his lap. There was the occasional nightmare on either side, ending with cups of tea in the thick of night in the sitting room or sometimes slipping into the warmth of the sheets and breathing in their scent and allowing soothing touch until sleep was reclaimed. They were both well aware of the uniqueness of their arrangement, but neither felt the need to change it or to risk it by making a comment. Their rhythms settled, and they lived like a family.


	4. Chapter 4

It was 10am on a Thursday morning when the letter arrived. The sharp scent of coffee permeated the flat as John tucked two slices of bread into the toaster. London was already wide awake, cacophonous sounds of traffic rising to their flat on a warm spring draft as Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, hair still askew from sleep, placing a soft hand on Rosie’s head as he passed. He had picked up the post from downstairs (in the hopes that the rare honey that he had ordered had arrived) and brought an official looking envelope to John. Despite having been conscious for only five minutes, it took Sherlock mere seconds to deduce that this envelope did not contain good news. 

John took it from him thoughtlessly, as he placed a sippy cup of milk on Rosie’s tray, wrinkling his nose and making a silly face at her as he slid his finger into the envelope. Sherlock observed, leery, as John read the contents. His own heart sank as he watched his friend’s face fall into lines of sorrow. The doctor took a deep, shaky breath, shoulders slumped, as he placed the letter on the table. He appeared distracted, quietly working to control his inner turmoil. 

“Would you, um—“ he broke off to clear his throat, his gaze focused on Rosie. “Um, watch her, I need a minute.” The scrape of his chair on the floor sliced through the sudden silence and he was on the staircase to his room before Sherlock could open his mouth to respond. Sherlock filled his lungs, swallowed some coffee and reached for the letter on the table. After his suspicions were confirmed, he thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure whether John would want time alone or whether he needed to talk. John was better at knowing these kinds of things than he was. His heart, however, compelled him to go to his friend. Rosie kicked her legs as he lifted her from her chair and scooped up her toast and baby food. He knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and found her delighted to watch Rosie for a little while. 

 

He approached slowly, hesitantly, and knocked gently against the wood before easing the door of John’s room open. John was clutching old photo album, slowly turning the pages with a faraway look. Sherlock sat beside him on the bed. 

“Who is it?” He asked, knowing that one of the young men in fatigues, smiling at the camera, was no more. 

“Him,” John said, his voice gravelly as if he hadn’t spoken in days. He cleared his throat. “Michael. He was in my regiment. He did three tours in total. On his last one, just last year, he took a bullet to the abdomen and never really recovered. He died of complications, apparently.” The corners of his lips turned up in a sad mockery of a smile. “Here we are, playing cards. And in this one, he had just told us about his third child being born so we took a congratulatory photo.” He swallowed thickly. “She’s six now. And she doesn’t have her father any more. He’s not going to see her graduate, or walk her down the aisle, or hold her babies.” His face crumpled as he lost the war against tears. He leaned into Sherlock, who slid an arm around his shoulder, tucking his friend’s head against his neck. Sherlock was thankful that he had become more comfortable with providing physical comfort because he couldn’t think of words that would provide any relief at all. He didn’t even try. 

“Are you going to the service?” His soft question was met with a long moment of silence. The air was still, silence filling the space between their words, thick as cotton. 

“Yeah,“ he finally muttered. “I have to.” Sherlock felt his indecision, his reluctance, overpowered by his sense of duty and obligation. 

“It’s about 15 minutes from my parents’ place,” he said. “They’d love to see Rosie.” John looked up at him, surprised. 

“You mean, we’d all go together and stay with your parents?” 

“Yes, they have plenty of room. We can stay for the weekend.” Palpable relief was written on the doctor’s features as he nodded slowly. The thought of doing this trip on his own was overwhelming and depressing. But if they made it into a kind of weekend trip, with some positive aspects to balance the negative, it might not be so bad. Having Sherlock with him might make it not so bad. 

“It’s a long ride there, two hours at least.”

“Rosie will be ok. We’ll bring things for her to do on the train and my parents can pick us up or send a car.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I’m probably not going to be feeling…sociable. I’m sure the guys will meet up after the service and end up talking about old times and….” John trailed off with renewed doubt about whether he wanted to go at all, let alone spend the weekend with Sherlock’s parents. 

“Let’s do it,“ Sherlock gently persisted, reading John’s thoughts, as usual. “You’ll regret not going. And my parents really only care to see Rosie. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but older generations in the presence of grandchildren see and hear little else. They’ll have no expectations of you or your time.” The doctor wiped his sleeve over his face, clearing the tear tracks and his nose. He looked up to meet his friend’s earnest gaze. Sherlock really wanted to do this for him. He didn’t miss that Sherlock had just referred to Rosie as his parents’ grandchild, and it sparked a warm glow inside him. He nodded, again, smiling a true smile that was mirrored in Sherlock’s eyes. He took his friend’s hand and squeezed.

“Thanks.” 

 

“You have the wipes and extra bags for the bin?”

“My parents have bags, John.” 

“You have her bee and her favorite book?” 

“John. We have everything,” Sherlock’s tone was soothing, rather than annoyed, though he had every right to be. The tension and sadness was heavy in John’s limbs and he was stalling—unsure whether he even wanted to do this. His omniscient friend placed a hand on his upper arm and met his worried, frazzled gaze. “We’re ready. You are ready.” John filled his lungs with the last bit of 221B before nodding and offering a small grateful smile. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

The train was unusually timely and in a stroke of luck it coincided with Rosie’s usual nap time. The gentle rocking soothed everyone and John dozed as he held her. After an hour, he passed her off to Sherlock while he stretched and used the loo. He returned to their seats, ready to make an acerbic comment about the manners of another passenger when the sight of his dearest friend pressing a cheek to his sleeping daughter’s head erased all negative thoughts from his mind. A tingling warmth filled him from toes to fingertips and he swallowed past the golf ball in his throat. Sherlock looked up, his eyes open and affectionate, a half-smile gracing his features.

“Sherlock, I can’t thank you enough for doing this.” The detective decided to avoid overt sentiment by brushing it off as an opportunistic deal for himself and replied with a slightly bored air.  
“I was due to see my parents anyway. And bringing you and Rosie will earn me enough credit that I won’t have attend the next musical they come into London to see. It’ll be Mycroft’s turn.” John smiled, recognizing the tactic.

“Is Mycroft coming this weekend?”

“No, he wasn’t invited. He’s out of the country anyway.” John breathed a small sigh of relief as he slid past Sherlock into his window seat. He wasn’t sure he would be up to the verbal tennis and mental chess that all Holmeses engaged in when Mycroft was around. “It’s just us,” Sherlock finished quietly, somehow making those three words sound intimate despite averting his gaze to the passing countryside. 

 

Sherlock’s father picked them up at the station, cooing over Rosie to the point of eye rolls from the detective. They settled into the Holmes home, Sherlock’s mother welcoming them with a warm hug and also gushing over Rosie. Somehow, on short notice (Mycroft was likely involved), they had acquired a small portable crib and placed it in one of the guest rooms. John found this gesture very touching and surprised himself with the unusual need to blink back tears. Why was he so emotional? 

Dinner was a casual, friendly affair with a great deal of conversation that morphed into lively debate over everything from politics to physics. Sherlock seemed more relaxed than was typical for him in the company of his family. John wasn’t sure whether it was related to Mycroft’s absence or the general sense of security that they seemed to share of late. Whatever the cause, John concluded that this had been a good idea. It was offering him both distraction from his sadness and comfort from a sense of family. He actually felt content by the time Rosie was fast asleep and Sherlock’s parents had also retired to their room. He sat by the fire with Sherlock, sipping whiskey, his thoughts unusually empty. Sherlock broke the silence, 

“Do you want me to go with you tomorrow? I don’t mind, either way.” John delayed eye contact, taking a deep breath and considering the question. Sherlock didn’t know anyone there and when people brought a guest, it was usually a spouse. It would undoubtedly give people the wrong impression about the two of them. However, he had been finding that he cared less and less about that over the past year. Sherlock was the most important person in his life and what others thought about that was not relevant. Part of him, however, felt like this is something he should do on his own—deal with his own past, be a soldier and stand by his comrades, proud, though sad. 

“Do you mind if I decide tomorrow morning? It’s not until 1.” Silently his friend nodded, his gaze affixed to the fire. “OK, I’m going to try to get some sleep. “ John placed his glass in the sink and Sherlock followed. “Thanks, Sherlock. Thank you for thinking of coming here, and sharing your family with me and with Rosie.” Sherlock locked the depths of his sea glass gaze on him and for a moment, he seemed to almost say something before changing his mind. 

“You are family, remember?” He finally said lowly. John reached out and squeezed his hand briefly. 

“I’m lucky.” He turned and headed toward his guest room, leaving Sherlock filled with a nebulous warmth. 

It was 4am when Sherlock was woken from his very light sleep by the sound of moans. He jumped from his bed immediately, knowing that John was having a nightmare. He had estimated an increased likelihood of nightmares based on the very reason for the weekend visit. He knew that John would be thinking more about his wartime experiences and he was also aware that the last funeral John attended was Sherlock’s own. Though John’s nightmares were now infrequent, about fifty percent of the time, they seemed to be about Sherlock’s fall. The thought filled the detective with remorse and guilt, but all he could do now is be as consistently present as possible and try to comfort John when he woke. He knew that John would be mortified if he thought he had woken Sherlock’s parents with his dreams, so the detective slipped into John’s room to wake him. He found his friend restlessly moving, the sheets in tangled clumps. Sherlock slipped in beside him, gently running his fingers through John’s hair and whispering his name. 

“John, shhhhhh, John, wake up. You’re safe, you’re dreaming.” John moaned Sherlock’s name, and the detective wasn’t sure if he had been dreaming about him or if he was acknowledging his presence. Sherlock began to run his hands down John’s arms, holding him gently. John woke with a start, shaking and sweating. 

“Oh,“ he gasped, “You’re here.” He relaxed into his friend’s arms, gripping them with his own. 

“I’m here,” Sherlock whispered into his hair, “What was it about?” John took a moment to focus on his breathing and doing a progressive relaxation technique that his therapist had taught him years ago. After a couple minutes, he responded, 

“You know that the last funeral I went to was yours?”

“Yes. I know.” The darkness offered them cover to speak of their unspeakable days.

“Yeah. That was the worst day of my life. The day you jumped. It was worse than getting shot.” Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. He wondered if it was worse than the day John lost his wife, but he didn’t ask. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’ve apologized, I accepted, we’ve been over this. But it’s just coming back now because I’m going to a funeral again. God, I hated standing at your grave and yet I kept going back because I just wanted to talk with you. It’s all I wanted, more than anything, just to talk with you one more time.” Sherlock’s heart ached and he swallowed a knot down from his throat into his chest, making it hard to breath. John felt his friend’s breath catching. He turned in his arms, facing him. “I’m sorry. It’s over, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about it. I’m just…it’s the funeral. It’s bringing it all back.” 

“It’s OK,” Sherlock murmured.

“Come with me tomorrow. Please.” 

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock felt something release that allowed him to breathe again. It felt like trust. “Try to get some sleep,“ he whispered and started to move away. John’s arms remained locked on his. 

“OK, let’s sleep,” said the doctor, turning away and taking Sherlock’s arm with him, wrapping it over him securely, with no intention of letting him go. Sherlock sighed and relaxed into the pillow, cataloguing the spark of every place his skin touched John’s. 

Streaming sunlight brought the sounds of baby coos and clinking china in the kitchen. John could hear Sherlock’s deep tones as he conversed with his parents over coffee. The doctor stretched the sleep from his muscles, wondering at how deeply he slept for the remainder of the night. He didn’t even stir when Sherlock got up this morning. He always slept better beside his friend—a fact he didn’t usually dwell on much in avoidance of the implications. As he was throwing off the covers, Sherlock tapped lightly on the door as he entered. The incongruence of knocking after spending the night in bed together was endearing.

“Hey, did you get some rest?” The doctor offered Sherlock a warm and slightly knowing smile.

“I always do,” he said—with you, the unspoken words louder than those spoken. Sherlock looked briefly (and adorably) boyishly shy and quickly masked his emotion. 

“Why don’t I take her out here while you shower and get dressed?” He lifted Rosie from her crib, kissing her soft hair and asking her about her sleep as well. John also kissed her head on the way to the shower. 

The morning passed uneventfully, though John’s mood became subdued. Sherlock’s parents were going to take Rosie on a picnic while they were at the funeral and it eased John’s mind knowing that she was in loving hands. They each went to their rooms to get dressed and when John joined Sherlock in the living room 20 minutes later, Sherlock froze. John was adorned in his uniform, which he’d had altered last week. Sherlock was struck by how handsome and young he looked in the trim lines and beige tones. He could easily imagine John shouting commands, directing emergency operations and being a captain that his troops respected and probably loved. An entire life, perhaps the most important part, lived before they had even met. The detective blinked, his mouth dry. He had stared long enough to make John uncomfortable.

“Do I look ok?” Asked Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, with uncertainty in his voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock said brusquely, but needed to clear his throat before continuing, “yes, you look quite…suitable for the occasion.” Even Sherlock had to flinch at his sterile choice of words. “What I mean is…” he faltered, staring at his friend once again. John recognized admiration in the detective’s open gaze and nodded his thanks, one corner of his mouth tipping up. He might’ve taken pleasure in his flatmate’s expression that bordered on desire, but he was too preoccupied to revel in it this morning. He did, however, give Sherlock’s typically sleek black suit an appreciative look and murmur, 

“You too.” He then tugged anxiously on the bottom if his jacket, flexed and opened his right hand and gave a firm nod, as if mentally preparing himself for battle. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, spattering the hard stone floor with a chaos of color. The church was only about half full of mourners, but spilling over with grief. There was a preponderance of military uniforms in attendance, in combination with family and friends. The sight of the man’s wife and young children was more than most could withstand, precipitating sobs from some and the subtle throat clearing/eye swipe maneuver of those unaccustomed to openly grieving. After the service and eulogy, the group proceeded to the gravesite. When the wife tossed her handful of soil onto the casket, John’s shoulders stuttered and he turned toward Sherlock, whose hand came up to gently grasp his arm, as John subtly hid his tear streaked face in the shadow of his friend. At the end, John moved slowly through the group, talking quietly with former comrades, and finally expressing his condolences to the family. As people began to slowly peel off from the group and depart, John began a slow walk away from the car. Sherlock paused, 

“I can wait for you at the car if you’d like some time to yourself.” His friend whirled around, displaced anger distorted his features. 

“Why would I ask you to come if I wanted to be by myself, Sherlock? I want you with me. I always want you with me.” John’s tone was cold and sharp and Sherlock froze. The doctor’s affect was at complete odds with his words and Sherlock wasn’t sure which to heed. 

“Alright,“ he said cautiously, catching up with the ex-soldier. Slowly, they walked the perimeter of the graveyard while John took deep breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” 

Sherlock’s voice was low enough that John could almost feel the rumble in his chest. “It’s alright, I understand.” They reached the peak of a small hill in the cemetery. The sun was warm and butterflies flitted between graves. The scene was incongruously bucolic. 

“Why him?” John asked, his voice rough, “Do you ever wonder why certain people die and others don’t? I mean—a man with a family, with small children, who is so needed, dies so needlessly. Whereas I had no one, but I was spared. Why? Why did I survive? How does that make any sense?” Sherlock turned to him, his question feeling like a knee to his gut. He pierced John with the urgency of his gaze as he said, 

“I need you, John. Rosie needs you. You are needed.”

“But, back then, when I was shot, I didn’t have anyone. I came home to an empty bedsit to recuperate alone. I could have died and it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone.” Sherlock shook his head.  
“I needed you already, I just didn’t know it yet. I needed you to come back, to survive, to give me a reason to stop using and give me a connection, a relationship that was more important than the work or drugs or The Game. I needed you to save me from myself. If you had died--” Sherlock’s voice had become tight with emotion and John turned to him. “John, you have to know how important you are to me, and to many others.” John slipped his hands into Sherlock’s, interlacing their fingers and leaning his forehead into the other man’s chest. He felt Sherlock’s cheek on the top of his head. 

“I know, Sherlock,” he whispered. “You’re everything to me, too.” As if drawn by planetary magnetism and inevitability, John tilted his head up and reached even higher, gently placing his lips against the angle of his friend’s jaw. He felt Sherlock take an abrupt, deep breath as long pale fingers clenched his own tightly. 

“John, “ he started, roughly. 

“OK?” John asked, leaning back slightly to look into his detective’s eyes, but they were closed against the onslaught of sensation and emotion. “Hey, is this ok?” he repeated the question, running his thumbs over Sherlock’s, resisting the powerful pull to drag his lips against every inch of his friend’s long neck unless he was certain it was welcome. Sherlock finally opened his eyes and they were a tumultuous sea of desire and fear. 

“Yes, “ he said, in an octave lower than usual, that raised chills. “The answer has always been yes. Always.” John’s breath came quick and heavy. 

“For how long?” 

“Since the beginning. Since the day you walked into Bart’s and found me in the lab.” 

“Oh, Sherlock, we’ve wasted so much ti—“ Sherlock didn’t allow him to finish the thought. He took his doctor’s face in both his hands and crushed their lips together. 

“Let’s not waste any more,” he murmured in between tasting John’s upper lip and his lower lip, between breathing in his scent and exhaling years of need, between reining in his desperate rush and savoring the sensation of John’s stubble against his cheek. John’s arms slipped around the taller man’s neck, losing himself in moist heat, the taste of tea and safety. Moments later, he reluctantly leaned away and pulled back for oxygen. 

“Sherlock,” he started in a gravelly whisper, garnering courage to speak his thoughts. “This isn’t---for me it’s not—I mean, this isn’t a temporary thing. It’s not a transition period or a trial run or a rebound. This is real, it’s us. I can’t risk losing what we have—“

“You won’t.” Sherlock interrupted. His speech was breathy, his pupils blown. “John, I’ve wanted this for as long as I can remember and I want it to last until I can’t remember a time when there was anything else.” John’s stomach fluttered, his breath heaved as if surfacing from an infinite dive. He anchored Sherlock against him, pressing his face into his friend’s heart. 

“Yes, yes. God, yes,“ he said passionately. “Let’s go home.” He slid his hands down into Sherlock’s, intertwining their fingers and pulling him across the cemetery toward the car. 

Sherlock captured John’s lips four more times before slipping into the car together. John laughed against his love’s mouth, 

“Sherlock, we’ve waited seven years and you can’t make it until we get home.” 

“I’m not waiting another minute,” the detective said, returning his grin and starting the car. His heart felt light, his chest suffused with warmth where it had been chilled for ages, in suspended animation. 

“What will your parents think?” John asked, a note of anxiety in his tone. 

“Seriously, John? They already think we are in a romantic relationship. We live together with your daughter. We stayed in the same room last night.” Sherlock’s familiar acerbic tone soothed John’s anxiety. The logic of his statements was irrefutable. 

“We are already in one, aren’t we?” Sherlock didn’t deem his question worthy of a response. John was too happy to be annoyed and he laughed lightly. “Yeah, okay, I guess we have been for some time now. Now, we’re just…” he searched for the right word for a moment before Sherlock completed his sentence, 

“Recognizing it. Celebrating it.” John laced their fingers together in contentment. 

“We have reason to celebrate,” he said almost to himself. Sherlock squeezed his hand as they pulled into his driveway. 

Despite feeling as if the earth had shifted beneath their feet, their evening proceeded uneventfully. Sherlock dropped John off to have dinner with his comrades, and spent some time at a local book store before picking him up again. John enjoyed his time with his old friends, but was preoccupied by his thoughts throughout the event. He and Sherlock agreed that their realization was too young for an introduction and evening with the mates from the army. Part of him regretted not introducing his friends to the famous Sherlock Holmes, but there was no point in stressing their budding relationship. When they returned home, his parents had put Rosie to bed and once again retired to their room, giving John and Sherlock quiet time with a small fire in the sitting room. John’s enthusiasm rivaled Sherlock’s when it came to their newfound intimacy, catching him in the kitchen, on the couch, on the porch, standing over Rosie’s crib. They settled near the fire, Sherlock in a chair and John on the ground, leaning against the chair between his detective’s shins. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s hair, reveling in the freedom of being able to touch his friend whenever he wished. The word friend was woefully inadequate, but lover seemed too dramatic. John was his….everything. He couldn’t find a word that defined him.   
When the night darkened and become rough at the edges, John stood, pulling Sherlock to his feet as well. Sherlock’s gaze was disconcertingly intense, 

“Ready for bed?” he asked John. The doctor was unable to tear his gaze away, though he felt his body flood with warmth the longer they stood there. 

“Stay with me.” John asked quietly. 

“Always,” Sherlock responded, before pulling John to him, kissing him with passion that left them both unsteady and took him to bed.


End file.
